


over (all i wanted was)

by Damkianna



Category: Battle Creek (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Communication Failure, Denial of Feelings, Extra Treat, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: It was eleven in the morning when Milt finally took Russ aside for a minute "to talk".Russ had been waiting for it since about quarter after eight. Since about last Tuesday, actually, if you wanted to get strictly accurate about it.
Relationships: Russ Agnew/Milt Chamberlain
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	over (all i wanted was)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jedibuttercup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/gifts).



> I couldn't resist your prompt for Milt maybe getting reassigned and Russ having A Feeling about it, jedibuttercup—happy Shipoween! :D

It was eleven in the morning when Milt finally took Russ aside for a minute "to talk".

Russ had been waiting for it since about quarter after eight. Since about last Tuesday, actually, if you wanted to get strictly accurate about it. He discovered distantly that he was a fantastically awful combination of relieved and pissed off that it was finally happening. On the one hand, there were absolutely no words left in the English language for how much he despised Milt, at this point. On the other hand, at least they could get it over with at last, now that Milt was finally fucking ready.

They were in the middle of a crime scene, because of course they were. Quadruple homicide, which was exciting enough that Guz was all over bringing the FBI along for the ride: par for the course. Milt had given the room, the rest of the BCPD team, the sobbing witness in the corner, a considering and vaguely benevolent look. And then he'd raised his eyebrows at Russ and asked him to step out for a moment so they could have a word, and it had been pretty fucking obvious to Russ what it had to be about.

The only place to step out to in here was some kind of storage closet at the near side of the room. Once the door had closed behind them, a stifling silence reigned uncontested for about fifteen seconds.

And then Milt said, in a completely normal, even, professional tone, "Russ, I'm beginning to think that perhaps—" and abruptly Russ just could not stand it anymore.

He was done. He was _so_ done. He was done with every single goddamn part of this, and he was _especially_ fucking done with Milt Chamberlain.

Ten days ago—last Monday. That was when it had started.

The worst part was, Russ didn't really have anybody to blame but himself. Milt hadn't actually said anything. He'd just been weird. Weird, quiet. And Russ had noticed, and exercised his god-given rights as Milt's partner to prod him about it until he cracked.

Which he had. He'd been incredibly Milt about it, obviously. He'd looked at Russ all calmly, and he'd said right to Russ's face, stone-cold, shameless, "I've been offered the opportunity to pursue a transfer out of Battle Creek. Suck on that, 'partner'."

Okay, so he hadn't actually said the second part out loud. But it had been written all over his face, which Russ had abruptly been desperate to punch him in.

It was about the last thing Russ had expected him to say. Russ had been blindsided, briefly but undeniably speechless.

And then something much more familiar and comfortable had come along: sheer blistering fury.

Milt hadn't said he was going to take it. Not then; not on Tuesday morning. Not on any of the excruciatingly long days that had followed, one by one, grinding Russ under their heels as they went.

But he was. Obviously he was. What reason could he possibly have not to? Not any of the kinds of reasons that mattered to Special Agent Milt Chamberlain, or at least Russ couldn't think of any.

He was going to take it, and get transferred out of here the way he'd probably wanted since the day he'd arrived. And the cherry on top was the way he'd told Russ about it, that deliberate calm, that casual steadiness—like he didn't see how it could possibly be a big deal. Like Russ had put in all that effort to pry him open, to be his _partner_ in the actual real sense of the word, and it hadn't meant shit.

Russ had, fueled by pure spite, successfully followed Milt's lead for the rest of that Monday: he'd managed to force his shoulders into a shrug, managed to spit, "Big whoop. Come on, let's go, we got a case," and then go through the motions like it had never happened at all.

And then he'd escalated, because that was the only thing he'd ever been any good at when it came to Milt. Milt didn't want to make a fuss about it? Fine. Russ would make the biggest fuss known to god and man about how much of a fuss it wasn't. Ten days, trying furiously to come up with brand-new ways to make it clear to Milt that Russ was barely even going to notice if he left—that everything was dandy, and nobody needed him, and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

In response, Milt had done that thing he did where he got more and more scrupulously considerate and understanding. Russ hated that.

Basically, it had been about the worst ten days they'd had since Milt had come to Battle Creek.

But this was it, at last. It had to be. Milt was finally going to say it, admit that he was leaving, that he'd filled out the application or put the paperwork through or whatever it was he had to do; that he'd be gone by tomorrow, or Monday, or next week. That it was over.

And if it was going to happen, then Russ just wanted to rip the goddamn bandaid off and be done with it.

"Just _spit it out_ ," Russ snapped.

Milt blinked. "Russ, what—"

"Oh, come on! How stupid do you think I am?" Russ scoffed. "This is about that goddamn transfer. Stop screwing around and just say it. You're taking it. You know you're taking it, I know you're taking it, the entire state of Michigan knows you're taking it. You could have just led with that from the beginning instead of jerking me around. God, you are such an _asshole_ —"

"Russ," Milt said, a little more sharply.

"It's no wonder everybody who works with you hates your guts," Russ spat, and was rewarded with Milt's face shuttering itself up, unreadable—on Milt, that was basically a full-body flinch, and Russ was feeling exactly the right kind of mean to relish it something fierce. "You _suck_ , you're the worst person ever, you're—we're _partners_ , goddammit, and you shouldn't have let that happen if you were just going to fuck off the first chance you got!"

The shuttered look was gone again. Milt was staring at him, the faintest furrow starting to form in the middle of his forehead, though of course he wasn't going to end up with any new wrinkles from it, because: Milt.

And then he said really slowly, like there was something confusing about it, "You— _don't_ want me to take the transfer."

Russ felt positively apoplectic. He was practically swelling up with rage. He opened his mouth.

And then he had to close it again, which was even more frustrating. Because he couldn't—he wasn't about to _agree_ with that. He wasn't going to say it. Milt couldn't trick him into saying it. He wasn't going to fucking _beg_ , or whatever it was Milt wanted out of him—

Milt's face changed. He was—he laughed, soft, through his nose, and suddenly his mouth had bent. He was smiling. He was—relieved? What?

"You don't want me to take the transfer," he said again, and he sounded _grateful_ , as if that made any fucking sense.

"Go fuck yourself," Russ said, automatic, a placeholder, because he didn't know what the hell was happening but he couldn't let Milt get the upper hand here.

Milt beamed at him, undented, glad. "You know that ever since—" and then he stopped and swallowed before he could make himself say, "since Casey, since I—changed, it's been—" He stopped again, and the smile turned smaller, grave, his face sobering. "Everyone's always been counting down to the moment they could get rid of me. It would have been—understandable—if you had been, too. I didn't want to take it. But it would have been selfish to, if you'd have been happier without me, just because _I_ didn't want to go—"

"God, shut up!" Russ shouted at him, because Jesus Christ, who _said_ things like that? Who just came out and said things like that? "What the hell is wrong with you? Who gives a shit what I want? If you want to stay, then _fucking stay_ ," and he meant it with every inch of himself, all the vicious irritation that had been dogging his heels since last Monday, so it made no sense that his voice cracked right in the middle of it.

He didn't know what was happening to him. It was just—god, it was so fucking _Milt_ , to have made it through everything, Brock and the cornfield and finally actually telling Russ what his damage was, only to come within inches of screwing them all over again because he was worried about being _selfish_. Jesus.

And he didn't know why that fact should be making his eyes go hot. He didn't know why his hands were shaking. He felt himself take a step, and he watched himself reach up and grab Milt's tie, and he had about two seconds to realize where this particular idiotic impulse was about to take him before he'd tugged Milt down with one sharp jerk, and kissed him.

He hadn't completely lost his mind. He kissed Milt hard, firmly—making a point. And then he let go, and cleared his throat, and said it again in case maybe Milt hadn't been listening the first time: "Fucking—stay. If you want to."

Milt blinked, once and then again, and wet his lips absently. They were kind of red, Russ noticed, and then yanked his eyes away, because jesus.

"All right," Milt said, almost evenly. "I will."

"Fine," Russ said.

"Fine," Milt said, and then he cleared his throat too, like maybe it felt just as weird and tight as Russ's did right now. "I—actually asked you to come with me because I wanted to talk about the case."

"Oh," Russ said. "Right. Sure."

Milt stood there. He opened his mouth. And then he closed it again, and sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, and a second later he'd stepped forward and pushed Russ backward into the wall of the storage closet, and for some reason they were kissing again.

It was about twenty minutes before they made it out of the storage closet more or less intact.

Milt kept a fucking comb in his pocket, because of course he did. That helped. They didn't look too much like—it helped.

Quadruple homicide. Work stuff. Important.

But Russ's mouth was buzzing, and Erin had to say everything to him about three times before he actually heard it, because the only thought in his head was: apparently it wasn't over after all.


End file.
